


What Dreams May Come

by Jougetsu



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-06-03
Packaged: 2020-04-07 00:17:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19073617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jougetsu/pseuds/Jougetsu
Summary: Alayne Stone's dreams are very modest, Sansa Stark's are impossible, and Brienne's might be portents.ORBrienne finally makes it to the Vale.





	What Dreams May Come

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ChronicBookworm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChronicBookworm/gifts).



Once upon a time there was a highborn girl in the North. She was pretty and well-mannered, with a grace that was hard-won and pride that was not entirely unearned. She was kind-hearted though not immune to the normal course of friction between siblings. Her hair was the color of autumn leaves and her eyes the color of the meandering rivers. More than anything her heart was touched by the ballads and lays of chivalrous knights performing great deeds for their gracious deserving ladies.

Though really the Septa said her heart should have been moved most by the words found in The Seven Pointed Star. However, in this maiden’s defense she was hardly the first or the last youth to find scripture less thrilling than story and song. 

Her father was heir to the great seat of the north. Her mother a beloved lady of the southron lands. With wealth, birth, beauty, and charm this girl naturally assumed her destiny would be nothing less than a fairytale. One day she would catch the eye of a knight of a tournament then she would be wed and live her days in domestic bliss. Her sons would be gallant, her daughters would be beautiful. 

This was not to be.

Sansa Stark did go South. She was betrothed to a prince. She caught the eye of a knight in a tournament. She was wedded. 

None of those happenings were magical, lovely, or even vaguely pleasant.

(Oh! The tournament had been thrilling at the time! It was indeed perhaps the last time she remembered being thrilled in a way that was agreeable.)

The prince turned out to be cruel – in the space of a scant few months he had both her beloved direwolf and her even more beloved father executed. The knight she adored had nothing to do with her and the knight she did come to appreciate was out of her life before she could call on him for a favor. Her husband was a middle aged cynic and a dwarf, not to mention the uncle of the cruel prince.

And just when it seemed she had found escape she was trapped! Petyr Baelish had her spirited away from the Lannisters only to be caught in a web of his devising.

That had seemed the worst of it. Surely her life could get no stranger, could take no more tragic turns.

Once more Sansa Stark was proven wrong.

Her aunt had cared nothing for her, offered no protection, and then was betrayed by Littlefinger. Then the news came that the rest of her family was slain – Rickon and Bran by Greyjoys, her mother and Robb by the hands of the Freys. There was not a single Stark left in the world unless of course Arya had survived somehow, but she had not been seen since the day Father died. Sansa Stark was no longer a creature of hopes and dreams.

Perhaps Alayne Stone was such a person.

Alayne was the pretty, petted brown-haired natural daughter of Petyr Baelish so the fiction went. Her mother was never to be mentioned and she had no siblings whatsoever. Indeed her only family was her loving father who was determined to make something of an up-jumped match between lowly Alayne and one of the knights of the Vale. Alayne had never known any troubles besides the circumstance of her birth. 

She was not a difficult mask to wear once Sansa learnt to sit in the back of her mind. While Sansa watched, waited, and was wary Alayne smiled, simpered, and was sympathetic. Alayne was the fool Sansa used to be. 

‘I may in fact have become stone-hearted,’ Sansa thought idly. The early winter winds chilled the keep as cold as Winterfell though the Gates of the Moon lacked the hot springs of the former. Sansa would have cried in her chambers after being snubbed so viciously at yesterday’s feast. More than one nobleman and lady whispered catty remarks about poor bastard-born Alayne and some simply refused to speak to her. Alayne was too humble to think it was anything less than she deserved. 

Petyr wished to have her wed Harold Hardyng, the heir of the Vale, and thus be responsible for uniting two kingdoms once he revealed her true identity after the wedding. Both Sansa and Alayne had to wonder how even the cunning Littlefinger could pull off that coup. Ser Harold had been one of the more vocal about Alayne’s low origins. Without him being enticed with the prize of the heir of Winterfell what reason would he have to marry beneath him?

And surely, very surely Petyr’s machinations could not end there. Sansa would not put it past Petyr to contrive Harold’s murder (perhaps after Sansa conceived Ser Harold’s heir or after Harold won the Iron Throne – though that was an even greater stretch than Harold marrying a Stone) and then wed poor widowed Lady Sansa. Or mayhap he would never deign to wed Sansa, but she would forever be in his grasp as penance for Catelyn Tully’s rejection of him so long ago.

Wasn’t it a stroke of luck that Alayne never worried? Alayne’s brow never furrowed as she stabbed, stabbed, stabbed the long needle into her tapestry-work, she was such a dear girl that nothing vexed her. 

Sansa utterly despised Alayne.

She did not loathe Myranda Royce much as she sometimes longed to. Myranda was Alayne’s only friend in the Vale. Mya had seemed to have the potential of a friend, but she was not often in her company as Alayne suspected Petyr rather wanted to put distance between the two Stones and Mya was not ladylike. The lack of acquaintance was a shame for Mya made Sansa fiercely miss Arya. 

“Have you ever left the Vale?” Alayne asked Myranda as they did their needlework that evening. 

“A few times, I’ve been to the Riverlands and the Crownlands when I was a slip of a thing,” said Myranda. “I used to dream about going to Dorne and Essos when I was a child.” 

“Whatever would you do in Dorne or Essos?” asked Alayne, pleasantly always pleasantly.

“They were a child’s imaginings, nothing one could actually do in these days,” said Myranda. She handed Alayne a skein of red floss when she noticed Alayne was at the end of her thread. “Half the time I was a fierce warrior woman of the desert sands. I had a magnificent stallion, black with a white star upon his brow of course, and I unearthed lost treasures whilst fighting bandits.” 

“And the other half of the time?”

Myranda laughed at her younger self in recollection. “Why I was a lost princess of old Valyria! With silvery hair and eyes as purple as the clearest amethyst you’ve ever seen, of course-“

“Of course.” Alayne smiled, Sansa did too despite herself.

“And I had a dragon with scales of pearl and lilac! We flew from Tyrosh to Braavos and I broke the hearts of every prince, rogue, and knight I met. Princess Valranda-“

That drew an honest laugh from Sansa. The absurdity and earnestness of childhood was so quaint to her now!

Her friend took no offense and laughed just as heartily, “Ridiculous, wasn’t it? Sometimes I still take out those old fancies and dust them off just to amuse myself.” 

“How exciting your imagination was,” said Alayne. “I am ever so dull in comparison. I simply imagined I was a lady being courted by a chivalrous knight.” 

The tapestry in her lap was not an ambitious scene. A hound chased a deer in the wood, a bird overhead and a hunter sounding his horn. 

“Perhaps your dreams were tamer,” Myranda conceded. “But they have a much greater chance of coming true. Lord Baelish for one seems to be attempting to grant your wish. Before winter is over I am more than certain you shall be the lady wife of one of the Vale knights.”

The deer’s antlers were not entirely straight. Alayne was unsure how to fix her mistake. Likely it did not matter. No one would ever see her needlework outside her own chambers. 

“You are of a more hopeful turn of mind than I.” Alayne replied adjusted the frame in her lap. “The good families of the Vale are very concerned with breeding and one cannot blame them.”

“You are a gentlewoman in nearly every respect,” said Myranda. “You are sweet and poised with no small amount of beauty and a great deal of sense. With the war raging across Westeros they are hardly likely to find a surplus of brides better than yourself.”

Neither Alayne nor Sansa wanted to be married to Harold. His character did him little credit and her failed betrothal and farce of a first (and still valid) marriage gave her little reason to desire elsewise. “Perhaps I will be very fortunate and a lady such as yourself will have me for a bosom companion in her household. I would be genteel and grateful and when my father, Lord Baelish, passes from this world I would repay my benefactors with whatever little is left to me.”

“You are far too young and much too pretty to find solace in the prospect of lifelong spinsterhood,” Myranda tutted, her eyes twinkling. “We’ll make you a good match yet even if it is not to a knight. There are many fine men in the Vale still. Stewards and artisans and merchants and yes even an admirable sea captain or two.”

“A sea captain would be agreeable.” The hound was perhaps a bit larger than the sleek dogs favored by noble families, but Sansa rather liked how her hound was turning out. “I would keep house very nicely, listen to all his stories, and enjoy my own company for the majority of the year.” 

“I cannot fault you there,” said Myranda. “That is much more sensible than eternal spinsterhood – one might as well be a septa at that point! Think of all the lovely Myrish lace and Tyroshi pearls he’d bring you as gifts.” 

“Let us give him a name.” Alayne felt an impish thrill at defying her lord father’s wishes. “Our own secret name for this dashing captain.”

“Princess Valranda is no good at names!” Myranda chuckled once more. “I’m sure you could conjure something much more suitable for your future husband.” 

Naturally, she could not pick a name of a Westerosi house for it would not do for Petyr or anyone listening to think there was in fact an actual affair going on – Alayne could not weather anymore scandal than her surname already implied. “Captain Rhylen, born of a Dornish family but spent his youth in the free city of Tyrosh.”

“Was it a scandalous youth?”

“Oh indeed, he was very roguish,” Alayne warmed up to their game. “But never truly wicked, for he longed to make a name of himself to make his Dornish brothers – all seven of them – proud. And now at seven-and-twenty he wishes to settle down with a Westerosi maiden and keep a home in the Stormlands so that he may still voyage the Narrow Sea when business requires.”

“A Westerosi maiden of nut brown hair, alabaster complexion, and safflower blue eyes?” Myranda nudged her friend. 

“However did you know? Are you a seer?” Alayne feigned shock. 

Captain Rhylen was not as perfect as Sansa’s former dream knights, but he would do for now. 

And if both Alayne and Sansa were very fortunate, Ser Harold would not be their marital destiny.

***

Not so very long ago a young woman realized her dream of becoming a knight. The world turned on its axis not long after. 

“Does it still hurt, my lady?” Podrick dabbed at her wound with clean well water. 

It was agony, but Brienne of Tarth could not worry about any wound that was less than fatal. She was a knight on a most urgent quest. Pain was an old friend to anyone on the Warrior’s path. The gouge was hideous and stitched the best it could be under the circumstances. Praise be to the Seven she no longer needed milk of the poppy to fall asleep or gain the strength to stand.

“Somewhat, Podrick.” One learnt to be concise in speech when one suffered a cheek. 

“Of course I know it must hurt,” said Podrick in a rush. “But you’re the bravest person I know and it looks-“ 

If “Beauty” was a mocking epithet it was nothing less than cruel if applied to her now. 

Never mind that. Brienne had always been homely. At least her disfigurement came in the line of duty instead of by birth, the distinction lay in that she had a choice in the matter. 

“I’m sure it looks worse than I can imagine,” she said softly. Trying not to move her jaw and lips too much gave her speech a now mumbled quality that she did not care for, but there was nothing to be done until she healed more. “But vanity is an ugly trait in a knight.”

Podrick nodded with the weighty solemnity only the young could manage. 

The lead had turned out to be another dead end. The girl they believed to be Sansa was not either of the lost Stark daughters and even the Hound they discovered was false.

Another knight might have lost heart. Brienne was determined to hang on to hers. She’d survived Renly’s death, survived a hanging, survived having her face partially mauled. She would bring at least one of the Stark girls to safety even if it meant dying in the attempt. 

“We must rest and continue our journey tomorrow,” she gently pushed her squire away from her wound. 

“But we don’t know where to go next,” said Podrick.

“We will,” she told him. 

Sleep without the opiate medicine was fitful, but at least it was no longer the hazy, fuzzy mess of the week past. Indeed her dreams were clearer now. Mayhap even clearer than they’d ever been.

Brienne was in the woods.

Not any real woods she’d ever come across in her waking hours, they were too uncanny for that. She walked between two rushing rivers. Out of the rivers leapt gorgeous fish, blue trout, red trout, and even once a striking black trout. The rivers came to meet in a large vee shape whereupon the trees by the banks grew larger. And the further Brienne-in-the-dream walked the taller and eerier the trees grew until she could not tell if she herself had shrunk in height. 

The river trickled to a shallow pool that was nearly dried up. When Brienne looked back the river was no longer there, she was surrounded by nothing by shadowed trunks. Her dream self did something that Brienne no longer allowed herself to do: she sat down and wept. 

Her tears made a new pool of water and from it a new stream unfurled in the woods. 

The dream was rather lonely, for there was no dream version of Podrick, nor Jaime nor Renly, to keep her company. Indeed there was not a single creature in the woods, not a single bird nor mouse. Her plate armor fell off in pieces, but the Brienne-in-the-dream never thought to pick them up. She simply let them clatter soundlessly onto the forest floor. 

How long or how far she walked Brienne did not know. It was exhausting, queer because sleeping out be restful not tiring and dreaming was sleeping wasn’t it? Just as she was ready to drop to her knees from fatigue there came the sound of a beast’s footfalls. Not a horse, nor a steer, nor even deer. Something large yet fleet of foot. Brienne was more curious than afraid, for what could a dream beast do to her that had not already been done in life?

Up ahead there was a bridge crossing the stream. At the bridge was the beast and it bounded toward her. 

“I am not afraid,” Brienne said aloud and mercifully her cheek was not pained to speak in a dream. 

The beast stopped short only a scant few feet in front of her and now Brienne could see it was a direwolf in all its magnificence. 

“I am seeking Starks, a direwolf is to be expected to be upon my mind,” she mused. 

The wolf cocked its head and its lantern-yellow eyes shone with an intelligence that was more human than not. It bowed its head low enough for Brienne to pet its muzzle the way one would a favored pet hound. 

“If only finding Lady Sansa was as easy as finding you, my wolfish friend,” said Brienne with no small trace of wistfulness. 

There came a huff from the wolf and it nuzzled Brienne as if to herd her down a ways in the wood. 

As there could be no true disadvantage in acquiescing Brienne did as she felt she was bid by the wolf. In several short paces they were quite abruptly out of the otherworldly forest and at the edge of a lovely valley. Lovely may have been too small a word. Below Brienne was a tableau of crystalline lakes and rivers, cultivated groves, and fine keeps. 

“This is all very well and good my friend,” Brienne said to the wolf. “I thank you for getting me out of that forest. But whatever shall I do now?”

If a wolf could be said to look annoyed than this wolf looked quite vexed. It gave a loud howl that echoed through the valley and in reply there came the cry of a hawk. When Brienne looked to the sky there was the hawk crossing the faded shadow of a daytime moon. Brienne woke so suddenly she nearly choked as she startled herself. 

Her dream could only mean one thing. 

“Did you have a nightmare, my lady?” Podrick mumbled from his mattress on the inn floor. 

“No, quite the contrary. It may have been a vision. Tomorrow we make for the Vale of Arryn.”

***

"Ser Harold appears to find Alayne Stone’s way of coming into the world distasteful,” Alayne kept her eyes on the rug in front of the hearth. Sweet Robin had gone to bed after a disastrous day of attempted lessons that had tried Alayne’s patience as much as Sansa’s weariness. 

Petyr Baelish knew better than to be too direct. Coyness and misdirection were his right hand men and cunning was his watchword. But on occasion he tried to pry real answers from Sansa. Which made it all the more pitiable that Sansa had adopted some of his cunning for her own – betimes she felt she was becoming more of Baelish’s daughter than Ned Stark’s and she hated that thought more than she could bear. 

“My daughter is not without her charms.” Every word from his lips dripped with unction. How anyone could ever trust the man was beyond Sansa’s ken.

“Charm is not everything in the Vale,” Alayne smoothed the pages of The Seven Pointed Star in her lap for she was a much more biddable and pious girl than Sansa Stark. “Sometimes I fear it means so very little. Cham may be well for a companionship, but it seems unnecessary in a wife of Ser Harold.”

“Their snobbery will not hold out forever.” Petyr smiled and had the gall to pet her hair as though he were her family and not her jailor. “I have great faith that any daughter of mine will have wit and grace enough to captivate even the most stubborn of lordlings.”

I am Ned Stark’s daughter, she thought with a vehemence so strong she feared it could be heard. I am Catelyn Tully’s daughter! You have no daughter you mockingbird of a man!

Blessedly, Petyr did not possess the fabled eastern magic of hearing the thoughts of another – no matter how it may seemed that he did know that mystic art. For if he did he would never let her near any sharp object in his vicinity ever again. 

“Am I truly that witty and graceful, Father?” simpered Alayne. “Ser Harold thinks me a wanton. I doubt he would even want me for a mistress.”

Sansa Stark would have died before becoming some knight’s mistress and would have had an apoplexy at the mere suggestion. Alayne knew better the dirty secrets of courtiers. 

“It matters not that he think you a wanton.” Petyr Baelish ran a brothel in King’s Landing and rarely did Sansa forget that fact. “As long as you are the wanton he cannot live without.”

Perhaps men in King’s Landing were more easily led, more easily folded into the shapes and manners that men like Petyr needed them to be. Even if Alayne, even if Sansa, were willing to seduce a man with the aim of luring him into a marriage there was precious little evidence to support the idea that such a scheme would work on Lord Harold Hardyng. Alayne thought he would not even care if she got with his child he would not deign to acknowledge her.

“Perhaps,” she managed to answer softly. Soft as eiderdown and sweet as honey as though her heart and mind were not protruding daggers from every corner. She would be no man’s mistress unless it was a scheme of Sansa’s own devising. Love and comfort were twin impossibilities, but she could keep a shred of dignity to herself. 

***

In spite of Brienne’s quest being full of noble purpose and valiant intent, Podrick and Brienne at long last came to the unhappy conclusion that they must stoop to some small amount of subterfuge. Which was how before they crossed into the Vale they coaxed an innkeeper’s daughter to dye Brienne’s pale locks a muddy common brown.

“People see a fair haired knight and believe they’re seeing a Lannister,” Podrick said with practiced guile. “My master has long been harangued in the Riverlands for it. As you can see he’s been most gruesomely attacked more than once.” 

“You poor darlings,” the girl Jeyne winced as she dried Brienne’s hair and soaked up the excess with a rag. “Does it hurt awfully, ser?”

“It will mend in time,” Brienne gave a wince of her own. It had never occurred to her to pretend to be someone she was not. For all the ridicule it had brought she was not sorry she was a Tarth, a woman, or a knight no matter how uncomfortably those things seemed to mix. Yet honesty had hindered her search, even when she had been evasive about Sansa’s name, her quest had encountered more obstacles than not. 

“What will you do now, ser? That is if you don’t mind my asking,” Jeyne, freckled and with a large braid of wild ashy blond hair, blushed. 

Ser Derik, a hedge knight of no import, with his scarred face and slight limp made a girl blush! Brienne of Tarth, even clad in silk with a dowry at her disposable had never made any man blush. 

“I have heard these past days of a great tourney being held in the Vale to appoint the guard of the late Lord Arryn’s son,” said Brienne. Which at least was no falsehood, such a tourney was being held and it was merely luck that such an event allowed for a stranger knight to appear and make inquiries around the Vale. “Of course I’m unlikely to win anything-“

“That’s a lie,” Podrick said hotly, forgetting all deception. “You’re one of the greatest knights in all Westeros.”

“What loyalty,” Jeyne cooed and blushed even more. “I’m sure you’ll win some prize even if you are not put with the guard. To have survived such attacks alive means you must have great skill.” 

“I thank you my lady.” It was Brienne’s turn to blush. How unfair the world was, Brienne could appreciate the beauty of both men and women. But men had no use for Brienne and women only had eyes for Derik. 

Perhaps it was just as well. A knight should be thinking of their quests, their fealty, and their lord – not mooning about pitying themselves for lack of romance. 

They were sent off after a meal of hearty stew and Jeyne even favored Ser Derik’s unmarked cheek with the gentlest of kisses for good luck.

“Maybe in a strange way it’s good you have a new scar,” said Podrick as they rode to the Vale. “Not that it’s good that you got attacked, my lady-“

“Podrick, you must practice saying ‘my lord’ even when we are alone,” Brienne reminded him. “We cannot afford to make mistakes and neither of us is practiced in deception.”

“Yes, my la-, I mean my lord,” Podrick continued doggedly. “But with a new scar you are less likely to be identified. Some of these knights had been to the tournament in King’s Landing and might have recognized you even with your hair changed.”

“I agree,” said Brienne. “I attracted a lot of attention then as a lady knight. An ugly man is less remarkable than an ugly woman.”

“I don’t think you’re ugly, my lad- my lord,” said Podrick.

Bless him, he probably believed it.

“Thank you, Podrick.” That had to be said. The lad was truer than most knights and lords of Brienne’s acquaintance. She dearly hoped they would both live to see him grow up to be a fine knight in his own right. 

“Do you really think we will find Lady Sansa in the Vale?”

Brienne knew her squire was eager to meet Sansa again and even more eager to reunite with Lord Tyrion, though it was unlikely that Sansa Stark knew anything of her erstwhile husband’s whereabouts.

“It’s as good of place to search as any other. All our leads in King’s Landing and the Riverlands were for naught. And an portentous dream is more a clue we have than any other.”

“Lord Tyrion didn’t believe in superstition,” Podrick said without judgment. 

“There are many strange things in this world, Podrick,” said Brienne. Never would she forget that night that Renly perished. The enchanted, nay demonic, shadow would haunt her memories until her dying day. “Things that reason and logic cannot always explain. I am not inclined to superstition myself, but these are strange frightening days in Westeros. We must take any succor we can.

“And perhaps it was not an omen at all,” she continued. “Perhaps my mind pieced together the gossip we’ve heard and figured out the puzzle before my waking self.” 

The expression on Podrick’s face said that that was the answer that would likely have pleased his former lord moreso than simply “magic.” 

Ser Derik and his squire Poe (“We cannot keep your name either for chance someone makes the connection between us, Pod.”) arrived the day before the tournament began. They did not attract too much nor too little notice. The Vale folk seemed eager to ignore the war raging in the West and were simultaneously pleased to have attracted knights from all over the kingdom to fight for the honor to defend their lord’s son. Not that they necessarily thought the honor should go to anyone but a Vale man, but the esteem flattered their sense of importance. 

Brienne rarely drank, but Ser Derik was happy to quaff a few and spare some coin for fellow hedge knights. Really it was upsetting how at ease she and Pod were getting at deception. The only balm that soothed that perceived moral decay that it was in service to a higher cause. The two of them were not out to thieve or burgle, they were to rescue a lady. All they could do was hope that the tournament would go on long enough for them to find said lady.

***

“It is a true shame that Captain Rhylen is not here to see you in such splendor,” Myranda lovingly teased Alayne.

Splendor it was, for Lord Petyr had done away with modesty and now clothed his daughter as though she were a true highborn girl. Her gown was the blue of House Arryn with delicate designs of silver thread upon the bodice. Each sleeve was adorned with pearls and so too was the hem of her gown with its modest train. Her jewelry was pearls and moonstones set in silver, with a hatefully dainty mockingbird brooch upon her breast. 

“Yes, well, hopefully Lord Rhylen will see me in more becoming finery.” Alayne forced her lips into a smile. Lord Rhylen was an amusing diversion, a fabrication with no sharp edges, but he was also of no comfort. Sansa’s dream knights had always eased her pain because she so fervently believed that they were just waiting to be met. “As fine as anything Princess Valranda ever wore.” 

Better to think of Myranda’s fancies than to think of how Petyr heavily hinted how Alayne should conduct herself around Ser Harold. 

“Oh, Westeros could never handle Princess Valranda’s wardrobe,” snickered Myranda. “She was clad in those scanty eastern silks and dripping with jewels.” 

Sweet Robin was sleepy in his seat of honor though whether it was from a medicinal draught or the excitement was unknown. Petyr seated at his left, in contrast, could not be more alert as he surveyed the players on his gameboard. Sansa was pleased to have Sweet Robin between them so she did not have to talk to the man so long as she giggled with Myranda. 

The opening bout was between two lesser Vale knights. Ser Harold and his ilk would not be on the rolls until much later in the afternoon which allowed both Alayne and Sansa to conveniently not think of him. Indeed the lesser knights and hedge knights were infinitely more interesting than the snobbish lord knights Alayne had already met. 

“It would serve Captain Rhylen right if his absence meant you were swept off your feet by one of these fine fellows,” whispered Myranda. “Why the next ones on the list are practically gawking at you, dear Alayne!”

Alayne was gawking back. Not at both of them, Heavens no, Alayne was not a wanton no matter what Lord Baelish implied. No, there was a tall, gangly young man with a nasty wound upon his face. He turned white, then red after his squire whispered something in his ear.

“Oh my word, Alayne,” Myranda gasped with delight. “He’s quite taken with you! Clearly he has no ill feelings towards natural children.” 

“How well you see the world, Myranda,” Alayne answered as even as she could manage. “He looked as though he were about to be sick at first, then shocked, and then some strange happiness has dawned upon him.”

“He’s likely shocked and pleased that such a beauty as yourself is not promised to anyone already,” said Myranda who clasped her hands. 

For all his youth and awkwardness the young knight made Sansa think of Ser Sandor. Was Sandor similar to this boy during his adolescence? Unsure, scarred, and determined? In memory of Sandor, Sansa favored the knight with a demure smile. 

The young man smiled back so brightly you might have thought she hung the moon.

Perhaps there were still some knights of valor left in the Seven Kingdoms.

She might even find them.

***

"It’s her,” Podrick choked on his own words and nearly dropped Brienne’s helm. 

“Who’s who?” Brienne shaded her eyes as she scanned the crowd. They had entered the rolls easily and Brienne did not doubt that she would last until at least day three of the five day grand tourney. While she’d been underestimated in King’s Landing for her sex, here ‘Ser Derik’ would likely be equally underestimated for being an unknown hedge knight.

“The lady on the dais.” Podrick’s eyes were nearly as big as saucers and his little voice dropped so low Brienne could scarce hear him over the noises of the fete. “That’s Lady Sansa.” 

There was indeed a young maiden on the dais next to the young lord Arryn, but – “She is of brown tresses and wears the symbol of Lord Baelish. Are you quite sure?”

“I’d know her anywhere.” Podrick lifted his chin. “And your hair is not of its natural color either, my l-lord.”

Trying not to appear provincial Brienne gazed once more at the dais. The might-be Sansa Stark was striking and perhaps if Brienne were closer she might be able to discern if she shared any features with her good parents besides the fabled Tully red hair. Whatever her identity the young woman was charming in a manner that Brienne found arresting. She was solicitous of the young lord’s health and did not exude the snobbery so common amongst Brienne’s peers. 

A grin crept over Brienne’s face as the distant, impossible fantasy of fulfilling her quest danced in the back of her mind. 

Lady Perhaps-Sansa smiled back, sweet and indulgent. Brienne’s breath caught in her throat. Lady Margaery Tyrell was a great beauty and Queen Cersei put many to shame, but this girl did something to Brienne’s heart that she had not felt since Lord Renly’s passing. “Poe, we must get as far in the tournament as we can.” 

Her squire was the picture of grim determination, “But what will we do after that?”

“We’ll have to figure that out as we go along.” 

Brienne of Tarth was many things, but a brilliant strategist was not one of the hats she could don. Mercifully Podrick had seemed to pick up the way his admired Tyrion worked through problems and took the initiative. Whilst Brienne recovered from the day’s melee bouts (all of which she had won whilst fearing her identity would be unmasked), Podrick had eavesdropped and bartered for the information they needed.

According to the locals, the girl Podrick was sure to be Sansa was known in the area as Alayne Stone, bastard daughter of Lord Petyr Baelish, Baelish being the widower of the late Lady Lysa Arryn and de facto guardian of little Lord Robert until he came of age. The tournament was as much for marrying his daughter Alayne off to a Vale lord as it was to select young Arryn’s personal guard. 

“He didn’t have any daughter in King’s Landing,” Podrick said in the room they shared at the inn that night. He helped put the bruise salve on Brienne’s upper arms and right shoulder. “He was without any family. And he used to be madly in love with Lady Catelyn Stark when she was young.”

“It’s still possible it is his natural daughter,” Brienne pointed out. Why she was arguing against her own hopes was beyond her, but it was too unreal for them to have actually found Sansa Stark on little more than a dreamed omen. 

“Lord Tyrion would have known if he did,” said Podrick. “He knew everything there was to know about the court.”

“What is our aim then? Lord Baelish must know her origins if he’s passing her off as his daughter.” Brienne tied up the strings of her shift once Podrick finished applying the salve. “And he’ll not likely give up control of her. Indeed perhaps she feels protected by him.” 

Podrick shook his head, vehemently it must be said. “She hates it here, I can tell my lady’s moods very well now.”

“If Lord Baelish wants to marry her to a lord, he likely means to reveal her true name in time,” Brienne chewed at her lip. All this politicking was mentally exhausting. She’d rather fight tourneys and go to battle than deal with these machinations. “She is the sole heir of Winterfell and this would bring the Vale into the fold.”

“The rumors say Lord Baelish is trying to marry her to Lord Harry Hardyng,” Podrick continued. “But he scorns her low birth. And Ser Hardyng is next in line to the seat of Arryn after little Lord Robert.”

Ser Hardyng, from what little Brienne could glean at the tournament, was not a good man. She did not think him as sinister as Lord Baelish was revealing himself to be. While he would not hatch an elaborate scheme himself, she could certainly see him going along with Baelish’s plans as long as they benefited him.

“Lord Robert who is sickly and without a mother or any other friend in the world. I mislike this more and more.” They had heard of Lady Arryn’s gruesome death which had happened so conveniently after Baelish had wed her. “I fear you are right, Podrick, Lady Sansa is likely another pawn in his game. We must do everything in our power to spirit her away.” 

“Lord Baelish would never allow a hedge knight to court her.” Podrick hummed and furrowed his brow as he laid out Brienne’s gear for the next morning. “He’d be afraid she’d tell someone the truth or seem as if her virtue is compromised and then Ser Hardyng would never marry her.”

“But how can we get close? I don’t think Lord Baelish would let Ser Derik join Lord Robert’s guard even if we did manage to win the tourney. He would want the Vale houses to be beholden to him.”

They both contemplated in relative silence. Podrick banked the coals in the hearth and climbed into his nest of a bed on the floor, consisting of a straw pallet and a heavy wool blanket. He sat up suddenly and said, “Her lady friend!”

“What are you talking about, Pod?” Brienne turned. The lad wore an expression of manic delight. 

“Lady Royce was the lady with Lady Sansa today at the tourney,” Podrick said in a rush. “She is a widow and is known to be rather flirtatious with younger men. If you act as though you are taken with Lady Royce then we might be able to pass messages on to Lady Sansa.” 

“Podrick, no.” Deception by omission of her name was one thing. This would be quite another. “I cannot toy with the affections of another. It would be morally unsound.”

“But we need to save Lady Sansa,” Podrick replied. “You are not harming anyone. I am sure Lady Royce would not be heartbroken from flirtation at a tourney. She is ever so much older than the young girls.” 

Leave it to a child to think seven-and-twenty old! “If we cannot get to Lady Sansa any other way then I will agree to your plan, Podrick,” said Brienne. “But you must be absolutely certain it is Lady Sansa that is with Lord Baelish and not simply a girl who bears a striking resemblance.” 

“I shall bring you proof on the morrow,” said Podrick. “But it is her. I know it.”

***

Sweet Robin was much livelier on the second day of the tournament. He even cheered and shouted for the knights with more vigor than Sansa had thought him capable of. Lord Baelish chuckled and reminded his charge that he ought not show too much favor as the host of the event, but Sansa doubted anyone would take the whims of such as small child as true marks of favor. 

She on the other hand was getting a shocking amount of letters. Whether it was due to her new finery and seemingly elevated position in the Arryn household, Alayne was receiving notes, tokens, and even messages sent by pages by a great many more knights and lords’ sons than anticipated.

“I told you that you would win them over in time,” Myranda crowed. 

“I think they believe I have sway over Lord Robert’s choice of guard, that is all,” Alayne demurred. 

During the break for midday meal a young squire sidled up to them the moment Lord Baelish had stepped away to talk to lords. Sansa inwardly was flabbergasted to find herself face to face with young Podrick Payne, Tyrion’s old squire. For a moment she nearly turned her head to see if her missing husband was in the crowd, but Alayne could not do such a thing for Alayne would have no reaction to Podrick than she would to any other squire. 

“My ladies,” the boy bowed deep and when he rose he gave Sansa, not Alayne, an assessing stare. “I bring tidings from Ser Derik.” 

“And which, pray tell, is Ser Derik?” Myranda sat up straighter. “The stately redhead with a ship upon his shield?”

He shook his head, “Nay, my master is the knight with brown hair and the ruined cheek. There is a tree upon his shield.” 

The hedge knight from yesterday, Sansa wondered at his boldness though she could not say she was displeased. Whoever he was, he seemed a good deal kinder and less arrogant than the Vale knights. 

“And what does Ser Derik have to say for himself?” Myranda asked. She gave Sansa a coy look. 

“He gives his compliments to you ladies and to you most especially Lady Royce.” For all that he was supposed to be delivering a message to Myranda, Podrick did not take his eyes off of Sansa and she wondered if he recognized her. 

“Oh indeed?” Myranda arched a brow and placed her hand upon her chin. “We thank him for his attention and wish him luck in his bouts.”

Podrick ducked his head and dropped his voice, “If my ladies wished to thank him in person, he would not be averse to an informal meeting. While he may seem like a lion, he’s more a wolf at heart.”

“Howling at the moon?” teased Myranda. 

“He’s very clannish,” said Podrick. “Like a Northern wolf with its pack.” 

Alayne smiled and wished him well, Sansa was frantic with uncertainty. A lion and a wolf, surely it meant something from a Lannister page to a Stark in hiding, but what? Was Ser Derik sent by Tyrion? And if so should she trust him? In hindsight, Tyrion was never her jailor and Sansa thought it might be better off under his care than Petyr’s. Indeed, Tyrion might even help her get to Essos or someplace else far from his sister and the rest of his nightmarish clan. 

“How very sweet of the lad to pretend the compliment was to me,” said Myranda after Podrick had scurried out of earshot. “It is quite obvious Ser Derik is smitten with you, but doesn’t want to risk your lord father’s ire.” 

“You cannot know that,” Sansa protested. How she longed to explain to Myranda that more likely than not this had nothing to do with courting and a everything to do with the chessboard that was the Seven Kingdoms. “You are still very comely, Lady Myranda, and young, too. It would not surprise me in the least to know that the knights might still seek your favor.” 

“There is a grand feast for tomorrow at midday,” her friend said pensively. “I suppose it could be of no harm to slip away for a few minutes to see the brave hedge knight that dare request an audience. You’d never see him at the closing feast unless he’s won a place on Lord Robert’s guard.”

“If you could arrange that with his squire, I would be happy to accompany you to the meeting,” Sansa bled through Alayne’s mannerisms, but Podrick would be only one here to know it. 

“And if I am so fortunate to find that he does not mind aged wine, I’ll be happy to show a green buck a thing or two,” Myranda laughed. 

***

The she-wolf was waiting in Brienne’s dreams as though it had arranged the meeting and Brienne was the one who was late. She trotted up to the beast and petted its head with familiar affection.

“You did lead me to the right place,” she told the wolf. “I thank you for that. Whether you are a spirit or a messenger of the Seven, it matters not.”

Whimpering the wolf pulled away and led Brienne further into the dream version of the Vale, where the mountains were steeper and the colors twice as vivid as waking life. Knights’ shields were littered on the ground and dozens of birds swooped and scratched at each other on either side of the path she walked. 

At the end of the path the wolf stopped in front of a stone tower. It did not resemble anything truly in the Vale as far as Brienne could tell. There was a little door, red and hardly two feet high. To Brienne’s surprise it opened up to a narrow staircase and she crawled her way up the tower with a pounding heart. At the top of the stairs was another door, of a larger size, but still not as tall as Brienne. Painted black she could hardly see it in the dark interior of the tower. 

“Hello?” Brienne knocked on the door and the she-wolf pawed at it in agitation. 

“Who is there?” a girlish voice asked.

“It is Brienne of Tarth.” There was no need to lie in a dream. “And I have come looking for Sansa Stark at the behest of her mother, the late Lady Catelyn Stark.” 

The door opened and there was the girl from the tournament, only now her heir was a bright flame red and she wore Stark colors – a gown and robe of gray and white. Up close one could see her Tully nose and Stark ears and a darling little crop of faded freckles across her cheeks. 

“Brienne? The lady knight that served Ser Renly?” Sansa, it had to be Sansa Stark, stared as though she were truly seeing Brienne and not as though she were a figment of Brienne’s mind.

“The very same, my lady.” Brienne did what any knight would do, at least in a battle. She dropped to one knee and brushed a kiss against Sansa’s knuckles. “I give my fealty to you, Lady Sansa.”

“You are very brave to come all this way,” Sansa leaned down and bestowed a feather light kiss upon Brienne’s brow. “So very brave. But Lord Baelish will never let me go.” 

“I will rescue you.” The kiss ignited some spark in Brienne. If Catelyn Tully’s request had begun this trip and honor demanded she see it through there was a new blossoming element added to the mix. Sansa stirred in her the same heady mix of adoration and affection that Renly had commanded in Brienne’s heart. Perhaps it was even stronger here for Lord Renly had not needed Brienne’s protection or assistance. “There must be a way. Podrick and I will find it and the wolf-“

“I would believe you,” Sansa’s smile turned sorrowful. “If only this was not a dream.” 

Brienne woke up. 

She needed to get into the Gates of the Moon. She had a tournament to win.


End file.
